Behind the tree line is a motorway, the distant roar of cars barely audible given the natural barrier. The sky is dark. No stars. Simon’s cigarette is the brightest thing on the lot beside the lone bulb affixed to the building in front of them. It’s above the faded wood door, unprotected from the weather. The bulb is slightly blackened, dampening the light.

“Think he’s trying to kill us?” asks Kyle, eyes narrowing as he observes the worn wood.

Simon exhales, smoke curling around his face as it dissipates into the air. “Price?”

Kyle turns to Simon, top lip curled in disgust. “Fucking look at this place, mate.”

Johnny sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Not up for getting ya’ dick wet?”

“Fuck off,” groans Kyle.

“Think he’s on to something, Johnny,” croons Simon. The behemoth of a man inhales the last of the cigarette, tossing the butt in the gravel, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his boot. “No windows. Weird lock. Metal walls. Fucking murder shed that is.”

“Think there’s a dead body in there?”

“Limbs hanging from chains?”

“Captain Price, the serial killer?” Kyle’s fist lands on Johnny’s shoulder. “Fuck me. That hurt.” Johnny lunges, the two men wrestling for a headlock.

Rolling his eyes, Simon kicks at Johnny’s shin. “Grow up. Fucking children.” Lighter in hand, Simon clicks it open. Shut. Open again. “Rather do this in the club?” He nods toward the secondary building, the larger one to the left. Muffled, pounding music oozes from the building, growing louder when the entrance door opens. “Where everyone can watch? You into that?”

“Piss off.”

Johnny throws up his hands. “No judgement, Kyle.”

“Price wants us to blow off some steam,” says Simon. “We’ve been pent up. Aggressive since the mission. He’s fucking right.” He side-eyes Johnny. “Also felt bad you almost died.”

Johnny sighs dreamily. “Loves me more than my own, Da.” Johnny throws his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Probably bought us one of the bonnie lassies in there. Or three.”

Simon growls low in his throat, eyes on the door. “I have the code.”

Kyle’s head tips back, gazing up into the starless sky. “Let’s have it off then.”

Johnny hollers, shaking Kyle like he’s a ragdoll before taking off to the murder sex shed.

“Out the way, Johnny,” scolds Simon, elbowing him.

Simon punches in the code, the red light flipping green. Twisting the knob, he shoves open the door, revealing darkness. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, to unwrap the present inside.

“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, stepping into the small room. Johnny and Kyle slide in on either side of him. The door shuts with an audible click. “Is that—”

“It is,” says Johnny, clearly surprised.

No bed or lounge decorates this room. No scantily clad women ready to offer themselves. There’s a hole in the wall. A cutout. Large enough for a human to crawl through. Breeding Hole is painted in glowing green neon above it. Two arrows curve inward to point at either side of the hole. The lettering oozes downward like fresh paint.

The hole is not unoccupied.

Johnny’s surprise turns to lecherous glee. “It’s a fucking glory hole.” He slowly strides forward, gaze sweeping over exposed skin and spread legs.

A woman, but only half, sticks out from the wall. You’re on your stomach, a black board with a red cushion supporting your weight, top end covered by a black curtain. Black stilettos, strappy with a razor-thin heel, is all you wear. The rest is exposed and open for them.

Beside the glory hole are two sets of ankle straps. One set is higher than the hole itself, allowing for legs to be locked open and wide. The second set are level with the support cushion. They can bend your knees, force them open, keep you restrained as they fuck you.

Price didn’t buy one or even three of the workers in the club for a quick fuck. A countdown on the wall denotes the remaining time.

Three hours.

Three fucking hours.

Price bought a session.

Graffiti covers the remaining three walls. Several television monitors play porn without sound. Overhead, music blares, a thudding rhythm that shakes the bones. Light comes from a few stray bulbs in the ceiling, each covered by a clear glass box in different colors. The set-up bathes the space in a kaleidoscope, heightening the pulsing intensity of the room.

Simon, Johnny, and Kyle circle you but don’t touch.

Glancing at a nearby rolling cart, Simon grabs a bottle of lube. “Look here,” he says, nodding his head.

It’s packed with silicon dildos of various shapes and sizes, anal plugs, vibrators, a variety of stimulation toys from a feather to a wooden paddle. There are extra bottles of lube, individually wrapped sanitation wipes to clean themselves, or you, off, and beside that are two rows of disposable cameras with extra film. A sticky note next to the cameras says “Use Me.”

“No condoms,” muses Simon, finding them absent after a second perusal.

“Says breeding,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t need condoms for that.”

“Think she’s clean?” asks Kyle.

Johnny turns on him. “First you think he’s trying to murder us and now you think he’s going to give us STDs?”

“Not intentionally,” mutters Kyle.

Simon snorts, placing the lube back on the cart. “Think Price is the type?”

Kyle inclines his head. “Maybe to his enemies.”

“Be real shite of him,” laughs Johnny. “After feeling bad for me and all.”

Stepping forward, Kyle traces the lines of your body, fingertips hovering millimeters away from skin. “Hand me the lube,” he demands of Simon, not looking at him. “And a plug,” he adds as Simon places the lube in Kyle’s offered palm.

Johnny claps his hands together, grinning madly. “Aye. That’s how it’s done.”

Gripping the plug in one hand and the lube in the other, Kyle squirts a generous amount. As he places his hand on your ass, you jerk as if surprised. Kyle gives you a generous, reassuring squeeze before sliding his hand between, easing you open wider until your pussy and anus are stretched and exposed. Both tense and flex, and Simon groans.

“Fucking gorgeous sight,” murmurs Simon, rubbing his hand over the front of his dark jeans.

Kyle aligns the plug, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. There is resistance but it pops in smoothly. Your thighs shiver followed by another jerk of your body. Kyle fills his hands with you, squeezing, some of the remaining lube transferring.

Squeezing both cheeks, he settles his clothed hips in front of your exposed pussy. “Perfect height,” he says, lightly thrusting. He backs up, gesturing. “Try.”

Johnny takes his place and then Simon. Height won’t be a problem. They’ll be able to fuck you with ease.

“Who’s starting?” asks Kyle.

When no one moves, Johnny aims for his belt buckle. “Aye. I fucking will.”

Johnny releases his semi-hard cock, easing his pants open and down enough to keep the zipper away from his dick. Fisting the base, he jerks himself, pressing the head of his cock to your clit, rubbing against it. A sharp smack echoes with the music as Johnny’s free hand comes down on your ass. A few more send your thighs twitching.

Kyle licks his lips, joining Johnny, occupying his hand with the other cheek. Simon lingers at the cart, picking up different toys and vibrators, clicking them on and messing with the settings.

Beads of precum bloom in Johnny’s slit. He paints your clit with them, smearing it around to act as lube. A few more beads and he playfully teases your pussy, easing the tip in and out, all while jerking himself to hardness.

“What about this one?” Simon holds up a small vibrator no larger than the palm of his hand. It’s on, shaking wildly, nearly jumping around from the speed setting.

Johnny smacks his dick against your pussy a few times and steps away as Simon approaches with the vibrator.

“Too much?” asks Simon, switching the speed down a level.

“Not enough,” replies Johnny, slowing his hand movements to strokes.

Simon ups the speed again, firmly shoving the vibrator against your clit. Your ass bucks into the air. Kyle lunges forward, placing pressure onto your lower back, forcing you back to the cushion. You writhe under Kyle’s hold, attempting to escape the sensation. Simon, with the continued pressure, swirls the vibrator.

Another jerk, and they all jump back.

“Fucking hell,” laughs Johnny. “Got ourselves a squirter.” Simon is already reaching for a wipe, patting down your skin to clear the excess. Johnny inserts two fingers into your pussy, pumping slowly. “She’s dripping.”

“Need us to hold her?” asks Simon

“Aye,” and Johnny nods at the cameras on the cart. “Want a picture of this slick cunt taking my cock.”

Simon chuckles, handing off a camera to Kyle as he readies his own. He holds it up, snapping a photo as Johnny’s cock disappears.

“Fuck,” groans Johnny. “Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.”

Simon snaps a few more photos and sets the camera aside. “We got her, Johnny.”

Together, Simon and Kyle grasp your legs, pulling you toward them and further onto Johnny’s cock. They move as one, adjusting the ankle straps, locking you in as Johnny rests his hands on your back, putting his weight behind it.

Hips sharply jerking, Johnny drives into you, only chasing his end. Lips parted, panting, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Simon and Kyle watch intently, their eyes lust-laced and eager, each of them stroking themselves to hardness as they wait their turn.

Johnny groans out his pleasure, grinding his hips against you as his balls tighten. Kyle already has the camera ready as Johnny slips out. Simon moves when Kyle does, spreading your pussy wide with his fingers. Kyle waits a beat, snapping a photo when Johnny’s cum appears.

“Not enough,” observers Simon. “Needs more.”

Kyle takes position. He doesn’t fuck as wild and hard as Johnny, but his strokes are deep and deliberate.

Johnny smiles behind the disposable camera. “Hold that pose.” Kyle eases your leg up a bit, giving Johnny a clear view of how Kyle’s thick cock stretches your pussy.

The camera goes off and Kyle starts to fuck you again. When the creampie happens, they snap another cumshot photo.

“Not enough,” repeats Simon. “Not nearly enough.”

With three hours on the tab, they rotate, take pictures, make you squirt a few more times. Kyle removes the anal plug, going up a size, insert it while they turn you onto your back. Ankles are secured in new restraints, toes pointing toward the ceiling, legs stretched.

Simon hooks his arms around your legs, hands firmly gripping your thighs. He cares little for ceremony or niceness. Their mixed cum is smeared all over you pussy and ass, overflowing whenever one of them fucks your cunt.

Johnny aligns the camera perfectly, angling just so to capture the position without Simon’s head in the photo and the television monitor off to their left. It’s showing a gloryhole similar to this one.

“Turn her on her side,” instructs Kyle, indicating how with a flick of his finger. “Think that tight ass is ready.”

Unhooking your ankles from the restraints, the three of them turn you onto your left side. Simon eases you toward them a touch. Lifting your top leg, he plants it on his shoulder. He straddles your other leg, aligning his cock up with your pussy. Johnny spreads your ass cheeks for Kyle; the plug removed with a wet pop.

On the other side of the partition, you cry out around Price’s dick as not one but two cocks enter you. They fuck rough. Hard. Whoever they are. Not that you can ask. Not that you can say anything. All you can do is stare daggers at the man keeping your mouth occupied.

Price tuts as you choke on him. “What will your daddy think of you?”

Daddy won’t know about this at all.

You’re taking this but you’ll never speak about it. Whatever your adoptive father did to earn Price’s ire is unknown to you, and you don’t wish to know anyway. General Shepherd never brings work home, but you’re aware of his power, and that he likely has enemies everywhere.

When Price took you from your apartment in Washington D.C., you thought he’d kill you. Make you an example to your father.

“Apologies, love,” murmurs Price, using his thumb to wipe away smeared cum on the corner of your mouth. “But your father’s a bastard.”

There is cum in your hair, on your face, all over the cushion, spread over your breasts. You’re not allowed to swallow. Your mouth is a hole for Price to come in. Nothing more.

Price palms your breast, squeezing, teasing your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Glad my men are having fun.” Price eases the rest of his cock into your mouth until you gag. He retreats slightly, but only enough for your breathing to return to normal. “They deserve it. After what happened to them. What your father put them through.” He sighs. Shrugs. “Not that they know who they’re breeding.”

Unable to move, unable to speak, you only stare, narrowing your gaze to stinging venom. Price brushes it off like it’s nothing.

Insignificant.

Killing General Shepherd was Price’s gut reaction.

Soap shot in the head, bleeding out, barely clinging to life. They thought him dead. His recovery, as slow as it was, surprised them even more. If Johnny had been killed, if he hadn’t survived, General Shepherd would feel lead, too. Know death was coming for him.

The sole reason Price didn’t fill General Shepherd full of holes is because Johnny lives, and lives well. Price’s revenge requires a different taste, and before him, the spread is bountiful.

A few favors are all it took to put Price in Shepherd’s office at the Pentagon. Place is a fucking fortress but it’s just a building when people owe you. Shepherd will know it’s him. There’s no doubting that. But Price wants him to know.

Price leans against the front of the desk, lightly tapping the final nail against his palm. Around him are pictures. Took a while to develop them. Can’t walk into a store, hand over rolls of film full of cumshots, and ask for them to be developed. He had to do this quietly. Discreetly. Took a few months of planning, but it’s here, in front of him.

Each and every picture is from that night. The only face that appears in any of the photos are of yours. Boys were smart about how much of themselves they revealed. A few didn’t make it, but there were plenty in the end.

Price admires his work, at how the photos cover nearly every surface. Shepherd will walk in, and everywhere he looks, they’ll be a picture of his daughter taking cock.

But there’s one final piece.

Something he didn’t expect.

Something that happened just this morning.

You should have killed me. You should have fucking killed me!

You were angry, standing at Price’s doorstep. Don’t know how you fucking found him, but your Shepherd’s, and he likely taught you well.

Beating on his chest, screaming in Price’s face, you raged, and then you spit out the real truth, the reason you even went looking for him in the first place.

The pregnancy test stares up at Price.

There are three possible fathers. All of them still ignorant about you and what Price did.

He’ll disown me. Did you know that? He’ll force me out of the family over this.

Price won’t put it past Shepherd to act so harshly, but you’re with him now. Left you asleep on his bed, curled up under the covers. He’ll have to tell the lads eventually, but not right now.

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

🂱

It’s warm. The warm press of a leg that’s not yours against one that is. You wish you didn’t crave the touch - you wish you didn’t crave any touch, but here you are.

“Sergeant!” Simon barks at you.

Right. The mission. You need to get your shit together.

“On it, LT.” You somehow get out, your head floating somewhere it shouldn’t on a mission this high stakes.

You head towards the East Wing of the decrepit - probably hazardous - building the task force was sent to this time. Yellow, peeling wallpaper surrounded you, leading towards a maze of office rooms and weirdly assorted furniture. it smelled of…eggs? Not the time to be hungry girl.

Eggs?

Your com cuts through its near constant static to Simon’s heavy breathing. You thought the base was abandoned? Did he find someone? Did someone find him?

“There’s a leak,” his gruff voice cuts through. A leak? Like…gas? “Location, now.”

You blink.

“East Wing, weird office, approximately 50 ft from the Log Room.”

You blink again.

Warmth.

“I need you to follow my every step until we get into that room.” You feel his breath cover your neck before the words fully register. Oh, okay. You feel his gloved hands slide around your waist after you’ve stared ahead a moment too long.

Right - the mission.

You force your feet to follow the path to the Log Room - you know this by heart, you studied it for weeks.

Left. Right. Left. Step over the cords. Left. Right. Left. Right. Simons’ hands clench tighter around your waist as footsteps register. Left. Right. Footsteps?

“Get in th’ room and go left.” Simons practically breathes into your ear.

The dust hits you first, the permanent mildew stains second. You kick away piles of old computer papers and years of dust bunnies to comfortably squeeze into the corner Simon guided you to. You take a moment to catalogue the potential danger you two are in - the footsteps are continuing to surround you, but they’re obviously still a floor above. You may have time to do this.

You take a look at Simon just as he turns to check if you’d made it. You nod. He signs ‘I’ll watch’. You nod. And inhale.

Focus.

“Okay,” you whisper inaudible to yourself. You grab the tools needed - stored safely on your Tac-Vest. “Time to do the fun part.”

What you were hired for - the best hacker on this side of the harbor. Price sought you out after one of your last schemes made national media - a rookie mistake - but one that gave you the most phenomenal job a girl could dream of. Of course, you had to be trained and ripped apart to prove yourself to the team (in your mind), but over these last 3 years you’ve done nothing but work your ass off to prove it over and over again.

So yeah - this is slight work. Could be better if you couldn’t feel Simon Riley’s fucking stare on you.

You pop the cover off of the control panel and get to work. Ghost’s slightly shuffling outside the door, no doubt getting impatient. He knows your rhythm by now though, so it can’t be too bad.

Huh. These wires look fairly fresh compared to the ancient computers collecting dust to your left. You warily continue accessing the board. Maybe they replaced these recently? But why? You finally get through enough layers of dust to access the chip you were after. After you remove it you notice a piece that’s definitely not supposed to be there, a sticker almost? You quickly peel it off and find…another chip.

Oh. They were protecting something.

You feel your feet dragging before you hear the alarm screeching in your ears. Ghost’s hand is wrapped firmly around the back of your gear, pulling you in a direction you can’t exactly decipher at the moment.

The closet - get to you trip slightly over those fucking cords the closet. East Wing, 30ft from Log Room. Are you saying this aloud? You hope so.

You hear a door whish open and your body being placed upright in possibly the smallest space you’ve ever stepped foot in.

Warmth.

“Oh.” You whisper.

Ghost has silently positioned the faux wall/door back into position before you’ve realized the proximity of his body to yours. His front pressed to yours, his body providing heat you haven’t felt so close in many, many years. Embarrassingly enough, the heat has made your brain register safety in a situation it certainly shouldn’t. The slack in your knees goes unnoticed entirely due to Ghosts body essentially holding you up.

“Hi.” You breathe. What a mistake. Your eyes begin to shut as the dust bunnies in the room make their way to your nose, a sneeze on the tip of your tongue, shi-

Ghosts hand wraps itself around your mouth, the sneeze hardly audible over his thick gloves. Shit. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the smirk on his face combined with the mortification of screwing up the mission bleeds onto your cheeks, flushing them an undoubtedly rosy shade.

The footsteps fall harder, getting closer until they’re directly outside of the makeshift closet you’d shove yourselves into. They lead right to the door, until they continue their path to the Log Room. Whew.

Simon’s thigh somehow finds itself nudged between yours in the chaos. Your eyes widen as you involuntarily squeeze him into yourself. You pulse. His grin deepens.

“Hi, bunny.” He breathes into your mouth.

🂱

You hear the pop of the cap before it’s placed on the wood table in front of you.

“4 beers and a Daniel’s with a fresh coke for bunny.” Gaz boasts broadly as he approaches the booth. You’d found yourselves at Malone’s, as always on a mission like today’s. It was somehow a huge success, Gaz and Soap clearing the North Towers as you and Ghost left the East Wing as quickly as you could - much to your chagrin.

“Proud of ya, team,” Price grins. “This one’s been a long time coming. Couldn’t be happier. Now drink you brutes.”

The four men hoot and holler while you giggle slightly into your whiskey. It had been a good one - you could say that. You’ve definitely seen worse.

You know he’s looking before you can even register to turn your head. Simon Riley and his damn staring problem.

“What’s y’r problem Ghostie?” You hiccup. You and Soap may have pre-gamed quite a bit before heading out.

“What’s tha’ bunny?” Ghost grins. Him and his stupid grin.

“You stare.” You grit out.

“Oh, do I?” He’s loving this, the bastard. You sigh. Maybe sulking is your best answer.

“Yes, you do. What’d I do t’ ya?” You pout slightly. He raises his hand to wipe your hair out of your eyes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers as he leans in close. Your breath hitches as you glance down at his lips through the mask. You always wondered how they’d taste on nights like these. Beer? Or the cherries he steals out of your Jack and Coke?

“Maybe both,” he laughs against your lips. Well, maybe not against, but with how little you’ve been touched in these last few years he damn well may have been. He heard that?

“Ukraine. August ‘23.”

The mission you’d completely bombed. Literally. The metal fragments are still buried deep into your naval - the explosion still echoing in your memory when night creeps into your room. That had been a rough one for the team.

You didn’t know the place was mined - it was your fourth, fifth mission? You were used to sitting at a desk, reviewing the many ways to bypass servers and firewalls tough enough to take down multiple CIA’s. The months of training holds nothing to common sense - see a giant ‘ant pile’? Don’t step on it. The fuck. You’ll never get rid of Kyle’s screams over the coms that nights. Your consciousness was like a frequency, in the atmosphere, then out. You could only remember slight waves of nausea and blurry grunts of pain. It was the first time you truly thought you were going to die.

You groan slightly, the shame reinventing itself into every crevice of your being. Your therapist would cringe.

“Thought I was g’nna lose ya, Bunny,” he says.

His stare lowers to your form, dressed in what you’d consider ‘risky’. The small amount of skin you’re comfortable showing, still more than the team has ever been allowed to see.

“Gotta stare at ya. Make sure y’r not g’nna vanish. Plus when it’s a view like this, how could I not?”

Oh. Oh. Your Lieutenant is flirting - you think. You also think that maybe you’re not as drunk as you should be to not remember this sentence every night forever more. You pulse.

“Oh.” You mumble, casting your gaze towards his hands. They’d saved you so many times, on so many missions. You wished they’d break the invisible walls you’d built around yourself. You wished they’d touch you.

Warmth.

Ghosts palm slides around your knee, respectfully, of course. Until it’s not. Your breath catches - whys he sliding up? That’s a little high, you haven’t felt that since 8th (?) grade, Seth Matthew’s in History - what a crazy time right? Your plans to distract yourself don’t work in the slightest as the warmth you’d been chasing for the last 3 years rushes over your body, cheeks, hands, cunt faster than you can process.

You let a whimper escape, involuntarily. Damn.

“I’ll do whatever y’ wan me to, Bunny.” He sighs. “Just please - let me stare as long as I’d like.”

a/n: part 2???

“C’mon, it wasn’t even close. You,” his gaze swings accusingly towards Simon, “were letting her squirm around too much.” Simon shakes his head.

“Didn’t want to break her.” You’re fragile. A little kitten in the jaws of wolves. Breakable like a pane of glass. Even more so now, since you’re sick. The bond corroding away inside your body hasn’t done you any favors.

The smallest amount of guilt pinches in his stomach. They’ve made a mess of everything.

Only right they clean it up.

A small cough echoes from the bedroom, and Simon frowns. You should be asleep. There was enough sedative in that water to knock out a horse. He jerks his head towards the sound. “Johnny.” His mate nods, and silence fills the kitchen as he disappears down the hall.

“So what’s your plan here?”

“Ger her on the plane, get her home, go from there.” There’s more, a methodical step by step plan, but he doesn’t care to elaborate. Kyle can infer most of it already. He’s familiar.

A hand rests on Simon’s shoulder, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle. “She’s in the closet,” Johnny murmurs, “passed out. Must’ve been feelin’ really anxious, poor thing.” The sympathy is dripping with something darker, something sinister. You’re anxious, you’re fearful, and though it’s their fault, they don’t truly care, not in this moment. Once they get you home, get you settled, they’ll work on it, right the ship. But for now, it’s fuel for a machine that has to keep churning, has to carry you across the finish line. Fear is a powerful motivator, they know. If you threaten someone’s life, scare them into thinking they’re in real danger, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.

Anything.

“Closet again.” Johnny shoots him a mischievous grin. It’s been hours since you retreated back to your room after dinner, tucking yourself away in your nest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze.”

“‘m not crawling into that closet unless it’s to drag her out.” He tells his mate with a flat look, trying to curb his frustration. He knows it wasn’t a conscious decision to build your nest in there, more so your biology urging you to find somewhere safe, your omega trying to retreat, protect herself, but bloody hell do you make everything so difficult. “Did you take her temp?” Johnny hums.

“Borderline high. Think we’ve got one more day before it hits, maybe two.” His mate is almost giddy, the overwhelming happiness flowing down the bond like warmth, filling an empty space in Simon’s chest.

And why shouldn’t he be? They’re getting everything they ever wanted, everything they’ve dreamed. All their planning, their strategizing, everything put into motion finally paying off. If they’re lucky, they’ll get through this unscathed, they’ll bite you, bond you, keep you forever, and you’ll never know the truth. He can taste it, taste you, on the back of his tongue, and it’s more than just perfume, pheromones. It’s clean and buttery and sweet…

and made for his mouth.

Made for their mouths.

There isn’t a gift quite like having a mate. Someone predestined for you, a mate is the only thing in the world that belongs to you before you ever see them, lay a hand on them. There is no ownership greater than the bond, no claim stronger.

There is no choice.

Only fate.

“Bleedin’ christ.” Johnny swears, laser focused on the rear view mirror. He’s rattling in the passenger seat, shaking from the amount of energy it’s taking to restrain himself.

“Stay calm.” Simon grits from a clenched jaw. He’s clinging to shreds of control, his alpha instincts surging to the surface, trying to break free. Johnny sits frozen in the passenger seat, still locked onto the mirror watching you fade into the distance.

“Ghost, Soap. Status?” The earpiece chirps, John’s voice echoing between them.

“Clear. Lost the target, we’re returning to base. There’s been… a complication.” The line is quiet for a moment, no doubt their captain weighing their words, trying to discern their meaning. Eventually, he just acknowledges them, but it hardly registers.

“Copy.”

“I cannae believe this.” Johnny hisses, half mad. His scent has turned feral, rimmed in rage, in confusion, as Simon’s teeters on a similar edge. They’re a powder keg right now. “Of all places…” Simon grimaces.

“Nothin’ we can do about it now.” It’s rotten luck, at the end of the day. Finding their scent match, their omega, should have never happened while they’re on a mission, in some unknown in a foreign country. It’s the perfect storm of wrong place, wrong time, and all he can do is hope that their little show was enough to convince whoever is tailing them you’re not of interest. “We’ll get clear of this, ask for leave, come back for ‘er.” Johnny’s eyes are dark as they flick towards him.

“She’s no’ gonna come willingly, not after that.”

“No.” Simon agrees, his hand coming down to lay atop Johnny’s, their fingers intertwining. “She won’t.” An unspoken certainty settles between them, a silent promise to do what it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Johnny is out for a run during breakfast.

It’s his normal, and they’ve tried to get back into their usual routines, their normal life, without exposing themselves as much as possible. They’ve scrubbed the house clean, anything personal or meaningful loaded into storage crates, cardboard boxes and bags, all of their belongings that made this house their home hidden away. Everything from photos to tea towels, all of it crammed along the walls of their bedroom.

It makes Simon’s skin itch.

The sooner they can move on from this, the better.

“Johnny’s gone on a run,” he tells you, not surprised at the answering silence. You try not to speak to them, insisting on kicking and screaming, digging your heels in like a petulant toddler.

He wishes you’d just give it up already, but he can’t deny he enjoys your stubbornness, your strong will.

It makes everything more interesting. More fun.

You’re worse for the wear this morning, listless, slightly swaying in your seat, pushing food around your plate, scent tinged slightly sour at the edges. Just enough that his alpha bristles, an overwhelming need to fix it, fix you, rolling through his blood like a wave.

“Feelin’ alright?” You blink at him, brow furrowed for a moment before it smooths away and you shake your head.

“I’m fine.” You croak, reaching for the pill bottles. He feigns disinterest as you shake them into your palm, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re a dutiful patient, clinging to the hope that the medication will help you, ease your suffering, completely oblivious to the truth.

They tossed that poison weeks ago, and what’s left of it is currently burning through your system. The last line of defense disintegrating before his very eyes, castle walls collapsing into dust around you.

He smothers his smile.

It’s not that he’s taking pleasure in your suffering, because he’s not, but he can’t help but silently celebrate the inevitable. Every second, every hour brings you closer to the finish line, to the moment where you’ll be so overtaken by your biology that you won’t be able to fight it, or them. Your protests, your fear, your rational thought will fade away as your instincts take over and you beg them for bites, knots… bonds.

You’ll become theirs, and they can leave this entire mess in the past where it belongs.

“She has it..” Johnny scrubs a hand over her face. “She’s sick, Si.”

They watch from the SUV as you come out of the clinic, zipping your jacket up to your chin. Your eyes are dull, lifeless, and a chill runs up Simon’s spine.

Bond corrosion. They’ve felt the effects too, the rot festering under their ribs, their biology slowly turning on them, punishing them. They’re just too strong to succumb.

Johnny taps away at the keyboard of the laptop balanced on his knees, your medical records spread across the screen in a dozen different windows. “Been gettin’ treatment for it for months. Suppressants, blockers, painkillers. The whole lot.” Simon grits his teeth. “Says here she had…” He trails off, focuses through the windshield to where you’re standing on the sidewalk.

“Had what?”

“A heat. After we left.” Regret tinges Johnny’s scent, and it pinches his heart. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering they went through a rut around the same time, but at least they had each other. They always had each other. You had no one.

You look over your shoulder for a second, eyes sweeping across the street. Simon freezes.

“Can she…” Johnny whispers, Simon shakes his head.

“No. She might feel us, maybe. But if she’s this sick, I doubt her instincts are reliable.” The moment passes. You turn away, flipping your hood up over your head, walking in the opposite direction, walking away from them.

“We need to move in. No more waiting.” Johnny pulls his phone from his pocketing, opening their text thread to Keller. A hot flare of jealously rises in his stomach. His alpha is possessive. Alex has no right to see you, smell you. You’re theirs.

“He doesn’t touch her,” Simon warns. “We only want him to spook her. Make sure he understands.”

“Tonight?” There’s hope in Johnny’s eyes, excitement. A little bit of worry too, for you, but overall, this is a good thing. An expedited timeline just means they’re one step closer to bringing you home. Sick, but they’ll fix it. They’ll take care of you. Simon nods his affirmative.

“Tonight.”

“Dove?” A small crease forms between your brows, as Johnny gently shakes your shoulder. “Dove, ye alright?”

“Mmm?” You shake him off, pressing deeper into the cushions of the couch. Simon’s fingers find your cheek, backs of his knuckles brushing upward, over your temple, across your forehead. Hot. Your skin is hot, nearly burning, damp with sweat. Dark satisfaction burns through his veins. How long will it be before you’re begging for them? Crying for them? How long will it be before you forget how they’ve hurt you, all the suffering you’ve endured because of them, and crawl towards them on your hands and knees?

Your scent blooms, flowers into something sweeter as you lean into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes open.

“What is it?” You mumble, pushing yourself up on an elbow, shaking your head like you’re trying to shed the clutch of sleep. It’s no use. It’s not sleep that has its hooks in you but heat, biology building to a crescendo, an overwhelming symphony drowning out your rational mind, your logical thoughts.

“You’re sick, sweetheart. Think you’ve got a fever.” He lies easily, and you try to push him off, but there’s no strength in you, your effort feeble.

“No, ‘m fine.”

“Ye’re not.” Johnny argues, propping you up with arm around your shoulder. “Did ye take yer meds?” Simon swallows his snicker.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know why they’re not working.” You moan, attempting to pull away. All it does is give Johnny an opening to hold you closer, and his mouth brushes across the top of your head when you instinctively turn your face into his neck, seeking his scent. “It’s so hot.” You complain, and Johnny smiles, unabashed since you can’t see his face.

“Aye. Want to get in the shower, try to cool off?” You nod miserably, and Simon urges you up, supporting your weight as you struggle to your feet.

“Take it slow,” Simon murmurs as you tackle the stairs, one painstakingly drawn out step at a time. Johnny’s behind you, fingertips at your waist, as Simon shoulders your lack of balance from the side.

Your scent is overwhelming. Burnt sugar turning to caramel, it mixes with Johnny’s excitement, his joy, tangling together in a perfect, heady combination that nearly has Simon’s mouth watering. He can’t wait to taste you, can’t wait to spread your legs and bury his face in your pussy, taste your slick.

The bathroom in their room is large, more than enough room for them to maneuver around you as Simon holds you upright where you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and Johnny tests the temperature of the water.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” You shake your head, try to pull away as they curl under the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s alright dove,” Johnny reassures you, now kneeling at your feet. “We’re jus’ gonna get ye cooled down.” They synchronize their movements, Simon lifting you slightly so Johnny can hook his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pull, Johnny holding you at the waist so Simon can get your bra off. You’re left only in your underwear, listing weakly to the side into Simon. “Such a good girl,” he croons, rubbing your thighs, “such a good omega.” You mumble something into Simon’s stomach, an objection maybe. A last line in the sand. “Up ye get.” Johnny pats your waist, and they herd you into the shower, supporting your weight, carefully holding you under the spray.

“Don’t…” You protest, but it’s fruitless. Your body is bared to them, naked while they're clothed, and Johnny grins with a full mouth of teeth, the widening maw of a predator. He drinks his fill, sweeping over you from head to toe, his fingers lightly brushing your nipples as he soaps your skin. When you shudder, Simon can't help himself, can't stop from splaying a hand across your belly, feeling your softness, the goosebumps rising beneath his touch. 

“You’ll feel better after this,” He promises, moving you deeper into the shower, rubbing your back as water cascades over your shoulders. This won’t do much to keep you cool, not for long. It’s a temporary balm, but until you’re panting and presenting, they need to stay the course. Try to keep you cool, keep you comfortable, until you’re overwhelmed by your heat and unable to fight it.

“Cold,” you whimper under the lukewarm water, instinctively pressing yourself into Simon. You fit there so perfectly, and Johnny smiles, sweet and sharp, the loofa in his hand sliding down your spine, soap working into a lather.

“I know dove, I know.” Johnny keeps his voice even toned, pillow soft. “Jus’ a minute more.” You shake your head against Simon’s chest, your nose turning inward, dragging across his wet shirt like you’re searching for him, seeking his scent. You sniffle, fists clenching and then relaxing, a battle unfolding inside your head, your body, a whine growing in your throat as the shift you further under the water to rinse off.

Johnny starts to hum. It’s a gentle, slow rumble building from his chest, and Simon presses a thumb into your nape, careful and firm. You’re powerless against his touch, Johnny’s subharmonics, your muscles immediately softening, turning more pliant by the second. Johnny kills the water and you sag between them, boneless and shivering. “Poor thing,” You shake your head.

“No.” It’s a whisper on deaf ears. Simon reaches for the clean towel they hung on the rack, wraps it around your shoulders. “No.” You say again.

“Aye, we heard ye.” Johnny rubs your shoulders, your arms dry, and you try to take a shaky step away, a small, half attempt that ends with your knees buckling. Months of sickness, meds, futile efforts, has wrecked you, left you defenseless, and he considers it a small stroke of luck. It’s easier, like this.

Simon leads you out of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around your waist, as Johnny moves ahead, pulling back the covers of the bed.

Their bed.

Not yours.

Not guest bed, not the little nest you’ve built in the closet, but their bed. The one that’s saturated with their scent, their warmth, the one that will become yours.

“No,” you rasp, pushing against Simon’s chest as he lowers you to the sheets, “not in here. I want m-my room. My...” The rest goes unsaid. Your nest.  Your omega is seeking her safe space, you don’t realize yet that this is where you’re truly safest. With them.

“I know,” Johnny soothes, cupping your cheek. “But we need to keep an eye on ye.” Simon tugs at the towel, your grip falling away, anger igniting behind your eyes for a brief moment before it’s snuffed out again, and you hang your head.

You don’t fight as Simon pulls the sheets and blankets up to your chin, you don’t push Johnny away as he fluffs the pillows behind your head. The heat roiling under your skin has drained your energy, and once they’re done tucking you in you roll onto your side, turning your back, shutting them out.

He’ll allow it, for now.

Johnny is already climbing into bed, over eager, eyes shining, murmuring into the crown of your head sweetly. Lies, probably. False promises meant to relax you, and Simon watches as your shoulders hitch once Johnny’s arm folds over your waist.

You do not have the strength to push him away.

Simon takes the other side. Your eyes crack open, fever heavy and suspicious.

“Close your eyes dove. Sleep.” Your mouth opens, closes, and he waits for your temper, your questions, but your lower lip trembles instead, and you bury your face in the pillow, hiding from him. From them. From everything.

He squeezes your hip, relaxes his palm next to Johnny’s, their thumbs folding over one another atop your body.

This is it. This is right. This is how everything should have been all along, you here, with them, cradled between their bodies, an omega made for her mates.

This is where you belong.

Once Simon feels as though you are ready, he notches his tip at your entrance, and your eyes begin to water just from the slight burn. He rests his elbows on either side of your head, digging into the mattress where his arms cage your head in, and he places a feather light kiss to your soft, swollen lips.

He pushes in slowly, and when you cry out, he kisses you harder, swallowing the sounds of pain that have yet to turn into pleasure as if he can’t bear to hear you like this. Pulling away, he stills inside you with only the tip in, rocking ever so slightly without pushing anymore in. Your walls stretch around him, tightly wrapped around his length, slick coating him to make it easier.

“It’s okay. You’re okay… you’re doing so good,” he praises, waiting for your body to adjust, for you to tell him you’re ready for more.

When you nod your head, he pushes in some more, but your body is so tense he can barely sink another inch into you. His thumb quickly finds your clit, and he rubs slow, tight circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves to ease your body into relaxation. You moan louder for him, your body giving in to the pleasure racing through every last inch of you, and your walls relax around him, allowing him to sink the rest of the way in.

Tears well up in your eyes when he stops, fully buried inside of you with his tip leaking precum against your cervix, and he kisses you with the utmost passion. He takes away the pain of your first time, rocking into you slowly, barely pulling out before pushing in again. Your walls mold to him, the burn and stretch from his impossibly large length turning into the most blissful feeling the longer he works your muscles.

"So good for me… you feel so good for me," he praises, resting his forehead against yours, letting your warm breath mingle with his from the proximity.

He pulls out further now, the delicious feeling of his length inside of you consuming everything you know. He takes you slowly, the veins and ridges of his cock sliding through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long.

You moan out from the sensations running through you. Your nipples drag against his chest, your cheeks are wet from tears due to the previous pain, your mouth hangs open from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to the man you love. You whimper and whine, you cry and beg for more, for so much more.

"Goddamit- you're so tight lovie," he curses, your walls wrapped so tightly around him, and he tries his hardest to hold back his release from happening too early.

Arching your back from the mattress, your chest presses against his, and the warmth of his skin floods your body. Your hips meet his every thrust, your body begs for more without you having to say a word, and he meets you there in every way. His fingers find your clit, and he rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves with tight, quick circles. His pace picks up as he begins to pound into you, pulling out until only the tip remains before sinking back in and knocking against your cervix.

It isn't until he slides a pillow under your hips that you truly feel the pleasure he can give you. He thrusts in hard, hitting your sweet spot with precision, and stars burst in your eyes when your lids shut tight.

"F-fuck Si," you cry out, your hands curling around his biceps where your nails dig into his rough skin and you listen to him grunt out from the pleasurable pain of you.

He keeps hitting that same spot, over and over again, devouring the way your body writhes beneath him, knowing he is the first person to ever make you feel this way. Heat pools in your lower belly, unfamiliar and scary, and as it sits there like a coiled spring ready to snap at any given moment, you try to warn him.

"Simon… p-please it feels weird," you whisper, pulling his body closer to yours, unable to control the feeling building inside of you as he continues to please your body.

His thrusts slow, his fingers on your clit matching the same pace, and he moves his mouth to suck in a nipple. It peaks between his teeth, and he sucks, bites, licks against the sensitive bud until you're writhing again despite the slow pace. He builds up your orgasm, knowing what it is even if you don't, and he reassures you the best way he can.

"Just let it happen lovie," he says, slowly picking up his pace again, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot buried so deep inside of you.

The feeling builds again, undeniable and intense, and before you can protest, his lips find yours and he swallows the words right out of your mouth. He thrusts into you fast, deep, hard, anything to push you over the edge that your body so desperately craves. Your walls tighten around him, pulsing and clenching with need, your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut.

Cum gushes from your entrance, soaking his length in your pleasure, leaving rings of cream around his base as he continues to fuck you through your peak. You squirm beneath him, the feeling so foreign and addicting, and you give your body to him, knowing he can take care of you in every single way it demands.

"That's it… you did so good for me," he whispers, placing kisses along your jaw, moving down the length of your neck where he finds the spot on your soft, salty skin that makes you weak.

His hips roll against yours, his release inevitable as he chases it, and with a guttural groan and a few more thrusts, he's burying himself to the hilt. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with each pulse of his cock, coating your walls in everything he has to give. He pumps himself in and out, slow with unsteady movements and jerky hips, until your pussy drains every last drop of his seed.

Simon collapses on top of you, his body warm and sweaty against your own, and you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. He stays inside you until his cock softens and your body grows exhausted, and then he pulls out and cleans up the mess with his tongue, promising you that he will have you squirming on his face as soon as he can catch his breath.

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Your pussy clamps down on nothing from the promise in his words, slick leaking from your entrance as desire continues to build inside you, and you can't help but nod and agree to anything he has to say right now. He laughs softly, kissing you again and again, moving his hand from your clit just to better situate himself.

He wraps one hand under your body, pulling you closer by your waist, positioning it to where he can rub your clit while moving the other hand to lift your leg. He slides his cock against your folds, gathering your slick, coating his length in your arousal to make it easier to push inside. His tip leaks precum, the head red and swollen with need, and you move your soft hand down to smear it with your thumb before guiding him to your entrance.

"Goddamn," he curses, his tip slipping inside of your wet walls, your pussy instantly giving way to his familiar length when both of you let out a rough moan of approval.

Simon sinks in all the way, his cock nudging against your cervix, and he rests there, feeling the way your walls flutter around him while trying to adjust to his size like you have to every single time. Your fingers grip the sheets, trying to steady yourself from the feeling of being so full, and you bite your bottom lip to muffle the sounds of pleasure that threaten to rip free and wake up everyone in the house.

"Si, please," you beg, rolling your hips back against him, silently asking for him to move, for him to do anything he wants to you.

His hand moves from your clit, moving to press down on your lower belly, and the sensation leaves you feeling euphoric from how deep inside you he sits. He groans from feeling himself there too, his cock twitching in the depths of your pussy just from the thought alone. One finger traces the lines of your stretch marks, silently worshipping all your body has done to give him his children. You let him, giving him the time to be there with you, giving him the time to think back on everything that has happened to make him the father he is today.

"I wouldn't be anything without you," he whispers breathlessly, his fingers finding your clit again where he rubs tight, quick circles while he pulls out just to push back in again.

His cock bullies your insides in the best way. The veins and ridges of his length slide through your walls, molding to him, welcoming him in the rawest way possible. He angles his hips to hit your sweet spot, and you do everything you can not to cry out for the man behind you. He hits your cervix, knowing just how much pressure to apply to make it pleasurable for you. Simon doesn't go too fast or too slow, his pace is meant to build your orgasm steadily, to build the anticipation.

"You feel so good," he praises, rolling his hips against your ass over and over again, pinching your clit between his calloused fingers and rubbing at the same time.

You moan quietly, rocking back and forth against him to meet every thrust while spreading your legs even wider than the way he has you positioned, begging for more. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, your other hand cups your breasts, toying with your sensitive, hard nipples to relieve the ache in them. Your head digs into the soft pillow, drool dripping onto the fabric from where your mouth hangs open ever so slightly on silent moans, and your eyes shut tight as you give your body over to him.

"Oh f-fuck Si," you whimper, shivers racking through your body as heat begins to pool in your lower belly,

He pounds against your sweet spot, his fingers dig into the soft fat of the inside of your thigh, his fingers work your clit with efficiency just the way you like it. You push back against him, letting him reach even deeper inside of you, and you grind against his fingers, but your body is confused on where to focus when everything feels too good. You pull, pinch, twist your nipples, searching for more stimulation while your orgasm builds and builds.

"Yeah? That feel good," he asks, growling out the words to bite back his groans.

You nod your head, it's the only thing you can do as he fucks you dumb and clouds your mind, inhibiting you from being able to form any coherent words or important thoughts. He fucks you faster, deeper, harder, thrusting inside of you with little control as his mind and body beg him to make you cum. His balls slap against your ass, squelching from the contact from how wet you are for him,

Your climax sits in your lower belly, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap, and your body begins to shake with pleasure as he continues to drill into you. He knows you're so close, he can taste the goosebumps on your skin when he kisses your shoulder, see the shivers racking through your body while you writhe, feel the way your pussy clamps down as if it never wants him to pull back out.

"Cum on my dick baby… I know you can do it," he says, encouraging you while placing his mouth on your neck, sucking the soft skin until purple bruises bloom underneath.

You squirm in his grasp, desperate to feel the pleasure he speaks of, and when your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut, you give yourself over to it. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his length, coating his shaft in rings of white cream. Your body trembles against his, your moans ring out in his ear even while trying to be as quiet as possible, and when you start to twitch from overstimulation he eases up on your clit.

"That's it. You're such a good girl for me."

Simon pounds into you harder, focusing on his own climax now. His hand moves from your leg, letting it hang in the air while he spreads your ass to get a better view of your soaked pussy sucking him in. Groans fall from his lips, grunts fill the air with each thrust of his hips, and the sight of you taking his impossibly large dick has him cumming instantly.

"F-fuck, goddamit… feels so good," he says, thrusting a few more times before burying himself to the hilt and releasing his seed deep inside of you.

A guttural groan rips from his throat, far too loud, but neither of you care. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with every pulse of his length, hitting your cervix and leaking out when there isn't room for anymore. Your pussy flutters around him, milking him of every last drop of it until there is nothing left and his cock stills inside of you. It creates a mess between your thighs, one that he will happily clean up.

His body slumps against the mattress, his chest rising and falling rapidly while he tries to catch his breath, and you pull his cock out just to flip over and face him instead. Simon pulls you closer, basking in the scent of you, in the warmth your body gives off. His eyes roam your face, taking note of your afterglow, of your half-lidded eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, of your swollen lips and drool stains.

He kisses you hard, but slow, savoring the taste of you, his fingers gripping your skin as if he can't seem to get you close enough. You place your hands on his chest and push him flat against the mattress before straddling his hips. His hands find your ass, kneading the plush fat, softly grinding you against his semi-hard length before you playfully slap him.

"No more… and you better pretend to still be asleep when I bring the kids in here with breakfast," you say, scolding him for distracting you from the Father's Day activities you have planned.

"Yes ma'am," he replies, laughing softly, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck to pull you back in for one more kiss before letting you leave. "Do I get dessert after?"

His hand falls between your legs, slipping two fingers into your pussy, curling them until he hits your sweet spot and your back arches ever so slightly before pulling them back out again. He brings them to your mouth, rubbing cum against your lips, silently asking you to open for him and when you do, you clean them off while nodding your head yes and gazing down at him. He groans, and sets you down on the floor, trying to hide his hard, aching cock with the sheets and telling himself to let you go before he fucks you in bed all day.

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So buzzed that you’re already nursing your fourth beer, head propped against the wall, trying to make out some words from the conversation everyone’s having… though mostly, you’re tuning out.

I mean, it’s just guy talk, after all.

After another very successful mission, the boys and you, are getting drunk. The drunkest of all, as always, is Johnny.

He seemed to have had a one-night stand a couple days ago, and he’s drunk enough to amuse everyone with the story.

Long black hair, somewhat curvy, with a tiny waist and perky tits. Your nose wrinkles in disgust as he keeps talking about his out-of-body experience with the girl, almost eight years younger than him. You roll your eyes sometimes, annoyed, yes, but also secretly happy he’s happy.

“I cannae get over it! The lass had a wee waist, she did! Could wrap both me hands round it an’ still feel like I’ve got room tae spare.”

He keeps babbling, hands in the air for comparison, as if he’s actually holding it while he speaks. You roll your eyes for what feels like the tenth time. The guys just keep laughing and shaking their heads, not really taking him seriously.

Then… the description gets a little more lewd.

“‘Er figure was somethin’ else. Daftly perky n’ proud tits, all natural, pretty lil’ cunnie… Christ, I cudn’t look away.”

Now, it’s different when it’s only the guys, but with you listening… the tension shifts. Price’s eyes flick from you to Soap to his beer. Everyone else sighs, rubs at their temples. You try to act like you’re not listening, scrolling on your phone, staring somewhere else but more than his lewd words, your stomach drops for a different reason.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve felt insecure. Height, body, hair… everything. It felt like you were “girling” wrong your entire life, growing up chubby, still trying to get in your ideal shape. You fought to become a soldier, despite everyone saying you were too short or incompetent. It was hard, but you were trying to prove something.

Now, at 23, still a virgin because of your insecurities, you hardly ever feel bad about it. Between work and exhaustion, there’s little space in your mind for anything else. But there are rare moments like this, where someone’s words make you question if you’ll ever end up with someone at all.

Because, however annoyed the guys sound, Johnny’s description is clearly doing something. Price loosens his collar every so often. Simon swallows. Hard. Even inside his mask, Gaz is listening carefully, looking a bit spaced out. And you’ve never seen Johnny’s eyes spark like this before. And it kills you.

Not only are you still somewhat chubby, your heavy tits slightly sagged, your outie visible, asymmetrical. You can barely look at yourself, let alone let anyone else see. Words like Johnny’s are exactly why you can’t.

The thought of sex makes you melt, smile, dimples showing. Someone looking into your eyes as they fill you up. Kisses everywhere, their body warm against yours, sweet words whispered in your ear… All the things you crave but would never reach.

Johnny, as drunk as he is, turns to you.

“‘Ave y’ ever had sex, lass?”

You swallow, caught off guard. Shake your head. Take another sip of beer before putting it down and fiddling with your hands.

Johnny groans in disappointment.

“Why the hell no? Ye’re a bonnie lass, an’ it feels bleedin’ amazin’.”

You sigh.

“Jus’ haven’t had the time,”

You mutter. You know it doesn’t sound convincing.

It doesn’t.

Johnny snorts. “Ah’m no buyin’ that. C’mon, tell us.”

“Mactavish,” Simon’s voice rumbles almost immediately, silencing him.

Johnny communicates with Simon with just his eyes, it doesn’t take much skill. Right now, he’s saying two things: drop it.

Johnny nods and takes another sip, while you sit red and embarrassed in your seat.

You stay red in your seat, skinning your fingers alive and trying to make yourself small. The laughter and chatter around you continue, but it all blurs together. You feel the weight of everyone’s eyes, or maybe it’s just the way Johnny’s words linger in your head.

You take a slow sip of your beer, trying to focus on the cold liquid rather than the heat climbing your neck. You hear Johnny muttering something else, but you can’t catch it. You don’t want to.

Finally, you clear your throat, summoning as much composure as you can. “Well… it’s shit like the ones you were just saying that gets me scared,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you’d like, but firm enough. You put the empty cup down, standing before anyone can reply.

Johnny frowns, blinking at you through his drunken haze. “Scared? Wha—”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “I’m… I’m gonna head back to base,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You pull your jacket closer around you and step away from the group, feeling the heat of embarrassment and a sting of frustration all at once.

The others start to murmur behind you, but you don’t wait for explanations or apologies. You just walk, boots clicking on the floor, trying not to cry or yell at yourself for feeling weak.

By the time you reach your room, the door shuts behind you with a solid click, and the noise of the world fades to nothing. You slump onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself. The anger, the embarrassment, the longing…it’s all tangled together.

You stare at the ceiling, letting your thoughts drift. Johnny was drunk. That’s all. It’s nothing personal. But even so, the words he said… the way everyone reacted… it gnaws at you. You try to push it away, tell yourself it’s just another night of drinking and talking, but your heart keeps racing, reminding you how alone and unseen you feel sometimes.

You sink into the pillows, hugging yourself tight, wishing for comfort that isn’t there. Tomorrow, it’ll be work, routines, training…but tonight, it’s just you, the embarrassment, and the quiet ache of wanting something you’re not sure you can have.

You weren’t even sure how you ended up here, one second you were fighting over the points of the game and the next his tongue was down your throat, hands pulling you into his lap with a growl. You think maybe you said something that pissed him off, maybe this was a punishment for hurting his feelings. But then again, maybe he’d been flirting all evening and you were feeding into it a little too much. Who could say? 

Either way, you were panting into his mouth and grinding against him, swallowing down his whines and whimpers when you move just right. “This okay?” You whisper on his lips, laughing when he pulls back with an incredulous look on his face. “Please don’t stop,” he all but cries, “god, please don’t stop.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips, your hand closing around the strands of hair on the back of his head and pulling, tilting him so you can kiss him as thoroughly as you want. He melts into you, moaning at the scratch against his scalp. 

You can feel how wet you are, feel how your panties stick to your core with each pass over him. You know you’re leaving a stain on his pants but the thought only spurs you on. You have a feeling he won’t mind, anyway. 

Finally, his hands slide from your hips to your ass, gripping tightly and giving him purchase to push up against you. “Oh - ooh, fuck,” he whispers, “you’re gonna make me cum like a fucking teenager.”

You grin, “that’s the plan, Ry.” And he whines into the air, hips jerking and hands squeezing tight. “It’s okay,” you nip at his jaw, “want you to come.” 

His eyes shut tight, his head falling back and hips thrusting harshly. A broken whimper comes from deep in his chest, his legs shaking under you until he tenses. You keep moving, realizing just how close you are, and topple over the edge of your own orgasm. It catches you by surprise, your hands pulling his face into your chest again just for something to do while you writhe through it. 

When you open your eyes again, he’s looking up at you with shining eyes, his mouth open just a little, like he can’t believe you’re real. You bite your lip and kiss him, sinking down to just rest in his lap. “You’re good at that,” he grins at you, hand coming up to swipe hair out of your face. You laugh, laying your head on his shoulder. “Thanks, nerd.” His laugh shakes your body, but he doesn’t move you, just relaxes against the couch and shuts his eyes.

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